Darts
by iCarlyFTW77
Summary: "I smile as 12 shoots the final arrow. Clove and I'll be reunited soon enough." Cato reminisces on his life and times with Clove.


_Darts_

By Liberty

**A/N: Write some THG, they said! It'll be fun, they said!**

**But they were right. I said I wouldn't read it. I read it. I said I wouldn't write it. I wrote it. **

**And here it is, OTP of all OTPs: Clato.**

* * *

It's amazing the details you'll remember as you lose someone you love.

The rock smashed down on her skull in slow motion, and I couldn't run fast enough. Fighting time was useless. She collapsed under the blow and fell to the ground. I couldn't register what I was doing, what I was saying, what was going on. I threw myself down next to her body. She stared up at me, her eyes wavering, and I could still see that little girl I had grown up with, laughing derisively, racing me down the road, winning every games of darts in my basement, kissing me under the stars...

But now she was going, going, gone. By the time I reached her, her eyes had fluttered shut, and a final tear had escaped her eyelid. Her body convulsed, she gasped, and then... She stopped moving. She was gone. The thought of it stabbed me in the back. I begged her to wake up. I shook her and yelled and screamed, but it was no use. Nothing would bring her back. Dead. Gone. _I_ was nothing.

For as long as I could remember, my whole life has revolved around one thing; The Hunger Games. I was trained my whole life for the day I would volunteer. Strategies, weapons, survival skills... Murder. That was the worst. But I didn't really care. It was my job. It was my

career. Either you die, or you win and are rewarded with an endless supply or money, food, and luxury for the rest of your life. Every year I watched another two tributes die and I thought, _I have to win_. And I believed I could. I really did.

The district had two tributes for every year. One boy and one girl. Usually the two imminent tributes wouldn't even talk to each other, for they knew that at least one of them would die. And when we were younger, we didn't interact much.

"Don't get too attached," Mom would say. "It won't end well."

And me, I didn't care much. I was young. She was a girl. She had cooties.

I remember the first time she spoke to me. I was maybe nine, and she was eight. Tiny pixie of a girl, if you ask me. She was small and strong, agile and precise. She spent hours a day throwing at knives at targets. I sort of liked to watch. Though I wouldn't admit it, I thought it was rather cool. One day, she caught me off-guard.

"What are you watching me for?" she demanded. Her voice was high and clear, but commanding. She may have been several inches shorter than me, but she sure did make me feel small. I had trouble stringing two words together around her. I guess some things never change.

"No reason," I replied defiantly. Slowly but surely, I inched away. Then, I turned and broke into a run. I could hear her mocking laughter behind me. Oh, how I loved that laughter.

The next time I saw her, she was wearing her hair in two pigtails. Her hair was long and dark and soft. Today, she didn't hesitate in mocking me. Every good insult she threw my way, she threw a knife at the target she attached to the tree. With every throw, she backed away further. She never missed the bull's eye. Not once.

Somewhere in there, I found myself growing attached to her. At the time, I didn't realize it. I just enjoyed her company, just as she enjoyed mine. Once, when I was ten and she was nine, she fell and broke her wrist. I stayed with her in the hospital all day. The doctors must've given us dozens of cheap lollipops. We both laughed and joked around so much, even though she had broken a bone and we had been sitting in the ER all day.

And then it hit me for the first time. At least one of us had to die. We were both volunteering for the Games the same year, and there could be only one victor. The epiphany struck me like a blow to the gut. One of us would die before we were even done high school. Maybe even both of us. The realization was sickening.

But I had four more years. When you're eleven, that's an eternity. I didn't think about the end of it; I thought about the present, the reality where I had my best friend. I pushed the dreadful idea of the Games out of my mind.

And so it went on. When we trained with our coaches, we pretended like when didn't know each other, and then after we were done, we raced up the high road (she most often won) and spent the rest of our afternoons together. We bought ice cream and wandered through shops and swung on the swing set at the park near her house. We watched cheesy cartoons on TV and did pull-ups on the bar in my room and read comics. She won every games of darts, but I won every game of chess. On warm days, we would just lie out on the endless behind my house and just talk. Those were my favourite days. The days when we saw each other for real.

And then, all at once, I was fifteen, and my hormones went wild, and I noticed something: my best friend, the lovely nightmare, was beautiful. The eight-year-old with the pigtails was still there, but now it was different. We had grown up. We were equals. That was definitely the best time of my life. It was the summer, and I was fifteen. It was so hot that year. We lived for the nights the we could lie in those rolling hills, late at night, and just bask in the cool breeze. One day, I just leaned over and kissed her, and she kissed me back. It was exhilarating. We had spent every waking moment together, and, to me, she was everything I needed. Our usual activities stayed the same, only now I could kiss her whenever I wanted, and hold her hand, and tell her just how wonderful she was. I wanted it to last forever. But it couldn't.

The reaping was terrible. We stood a distance away from each other, fidgeting and glancing in the other's direction. She looked beautiful in her dress. I knew that if I toId her that, she would probably chuckle, make some offhand remark about how she'd rather be in jeans, and then pull me close and kiss me on the mouth. It hurt like a wound to be away from her. I itched to walk over and grab her hand and tell her everything would be okay. That was the problem though. It wasn't going to be okay. I could hardly hear what was going on, but next thing I knew, I had volunteered. This was it.

I couldn't even look at her on the stage.

Train ride was definitely the worst, though.

We sat side by side, not saying a thing, our finger interlaced. I could tell she was hurting even more than I was. I looked over at her. She was crying. Clove never cried. Then again, she wasn't acting like Clove lately. Usually she taunted me and laughed and joked. Now, she was just a nervous wreck.

"I-I don't know what to d-do," she choked out. "I can't lose you!"

"If it comes down to the two of us..." I faltered. She coughed.

"Don't say that," she begged. "Please."

I squeezed her hand. She wiped her eyes with her arm and looked me straight in the eye.

"I'll fight for you until they kill me," she said fiercely. Before I could respond, Clove let go of my hand, ran her fingers through my hair, and jammed her lips into mine. I never wanted to let go.

The interviews flew bye. All I had to do was flex my muscles and wink at the teenage girls in the audience. Occasionally, I made myself look like a coldblooded murderer. Who am I kidding? I _am_ a coldblooded murderer. Clove and I weren't about to reveal our weakness to the entire world. If the other tributes knew about... Us... They would have a weapon against the both of us. And then, we were in the arena.

We were very careful not to show the other careers just how much we cared about each other. We took every precaution. We hid. We played our cards wisely. The other tributes faded away one by one. More than once, we claimed we were going out looking for water and instead I would push her up against a tree and kiss her madly. We would then return, and they would ask where the water was, and we would say we couldn't find any, and none of those dimwits would notice that our lips were swollen, our hair was disheveled, and our cheeks were red. Whatever. They were all going to die anyway.

And then came the announcement. Two victors. Clove and I. I had hope, finally.

Top six and we were confident it was going to be us. The ginger girl wouldn't be too hard to find, Clove would take care of 12, Loverboy would die naturally of blood poisoning, and I could get rid of 11. We made a plan; she would tackle 12 at the feast, I would grab the backpack, and then we would go out for Miss Elusive Redhead. Lover boy would be dead by then, and we could overpower 11. Then we could stay together. Forever.

And now, we come back to the beginning. My life flashes before my eyes. I cry out for my lost love. Scarlet revenge pumps through my vein. I grab one of Clove's knives, heart aching, and chase 11 down before stabbing him right in the neck. I guess 12 got to Foxgirl first, because there are two canons.

The 12 duo are going to be out for my blood.

So I run. I run faster than I've ever run before. Through the bushes and the trees. Past the Cornucopia. I run until I find them. And then, lungs burning, I pursue them. Try to hurt them in every way possible. Try to kill them. Try to make them pay for what happened to Clove.

Clove. I was so in love. Now, she'll never now.

The surge of emotion only makes me stronger. And then... The mutts. The vicious dogs, foaming at the mouth. They, like many past career victors, knew nothing but murder. I know love. I guess I'm one of the lucky ones. A mutt approaches me; brown fur and eyes with a collar that says "2". Clove. I look deep into her eyes for that fire.

But nothing. That's not Clove. In fact, the Clove mutt is diving at me...

I try to shove it off. I really do. But no use. Clove mutt has had its way with me. I'm broken. I can't feel any part of my body. I'm good as dead.

I smile as 12 shoots the final arrow. Clove and I'll be reunited soon enough.


End file.
